


Tend Your Light

by dragongirlG



Category: Breaking Bad, Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, El Camino: A Breaking Bad Movie, Grief/Mourning, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort Bingo Round 10, Identity, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Podfic Welcome, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2021-01-24 16:54:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21341569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragongirlG/pseuds/dragongirlG
Summary: In 2010, nine years after escaping from HYDRA, Bucky agrees to honor a dying man's wishes by dispatching a group of neo-Nazis in a remote New Mexico compound. Afterward, Bucky accidentally stumbles upon Jesse Pinkman in a locked underground cage. Bucky frees Jesse from the cage and takes him to the Disappearer, who asks Bucky for a future favor in exchange for setting up Jesse's new life in Alaska. When Bucky returns to Albuquerque a year later to fulfill his obligation, he gets the shock of his life when he sees just who's hiding in the basement of the Disappearer's shop.Fill for Hurt/Comfort Bingo Round 10 ("Wild Card: post-traumatic stress disorder").
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Jesse Pinkman, Minor James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 22
Kudos: 59
Collections: Hurt/Comfort Bingo - Round 10





	1. Chapter 1

It's been nine years since Bucky escaped from HYDRA and five since he finally destroyed its last insidious head. Bucky's head is still quite not screwed on right, but seventy years of indelible muscle memory lets him sneak past the armored gate marking the property line of the tiny cabin in New Hampshire. Snow crunches under his feet, leaving behind a clear trail of footsteps that he doesn't bother covering up. The world is white and still around him, and that, along with the oppressive isolation permeating the air, reminds him uncomfortably of Siberia. Bucky shivers and shoves his gloved hands deeper into his down jacket.

David Lambert, nee Walter White, greets him at the door. He's a sickly old man, and at first glance, it's hard to believe he's some infamous drug lord on the lam. But Bucky knows very well how appearances can be deceiving—Vasily Karpov had also been dying of cancer before Bucky killed him. (Karpov had asked for it after giving Bucky the Red Book. Bucky had complied—not due to some misplaced loyalty, but because he wanted to show mercy, even if Karpov may or may not have deserved it.)

"You the guy?" asks White, knuckles white on the doorframe.

Bucky nods. "I'm the guy. The Disappearer sent me." That had been his and Bucky's deal, made seven years ago: fifty-thousand dollars in cash for a new identity, and one favor to be called upon at any time. Meeting Walter White is the favor.

White dissolves into a coughing fit as he gestures for Bucky to comes inside. Bucky clenches his teeth at the sound. It reminds him too much of St—

No. He won't think about that. It still hurts too much.

Bucky quickly assesses his surroundings, noting the worn armchair and its adjacent IV stand, the boxes of supplemental nutrition drinks stacked to the ceiling, the outdated television and VHS player, the bare wooden table with a single deck of cards. "Take a seat," White mutters, and he disappears into the kitchen, returning with a stack of frayed papers and a manila envelope.

White shows him the hand-drawn map of the neo-Nazi compound he wants destroyed. "Don't have much of a plan," he admits between hacking coughs. "I was going to think about it more on the drive down. But—" He clears his throat loudly, doubling over.

"You're not going to make it through," Bucky says bluntly.

White nods.

Bucky studies the map carefully, memorizing each and every detail, including the coordinates listed at the top of the page. "So you want me to blow this up," he says, catching White's shadowed gaze. "Is that all?"

White clears his throat, looking away.

Bucky waits patiently.

Slowly, the story comes out.

The neo-Nazi compound is, in fact, inhabited by neo-Nazis who stole almost all of White's money and killed White's brother-in-law, Hank Schrader, and Schrader's colleague, another DEA agent named Steven Gomez. White wants the neo-Nazis dead, but Bucky doesn't agree to kill them. Instead, he promises to incapacitate them and restrain them, then call the FBI with an "anonymous tip" connecting them to the murders. He also agrees to set up an evidence trail that will lead the Feds to Schrader and Gomez's burial location.

White also wants to funnel money to his family—a teenage son, an infant daughter, a wife who's now taking the blame for Walt, and Hank's recently widowed wife—in a way that's not connected to him. He mentions Elliott and Gretchen Schwartz, his former friend and lover, respectively, who kicked him out of their startup company Grey Matter and consequently robbed him of his fair share of profits. "Maybe the money could come from them—"

"No," Bucky interrupts. "I have another way."

White tries to sit up straight and give Bucky an intimidating glare. He doesn't succeed.

Bucky clears his throat. "I'm not going to tell you what it is. The fewer people that know, the better. But I promise you, it'll be successful." He doesn't bother to elaborate, even as the plan forms in his mind. He'll use HYDRA's numerous shell accounts to set up two trust funds for the kids, which they'll be able to access when they turn eighteen, and he'll also set up a mysterious inheritance for the wife and sister-in-law, which they'll receive once Bucky figures out how to stop the Feds from seizing it.

"How do I know you'll do what you say?" asks White.

"You don't," says Bucky with a shrug, "but you also don't have any other options. And although I expect to be paid for my services, I don't have any reason to steal extra from you."

White frowns at him. "All right," he says, begrudging.

"Anything else?"

White is quiet for a long moment. "No," he rasps.

Bucky looks around the cabin, then leans forward. "If you wanted a quick death, I would give it," he offers.

White eyes the gun holstered at Bucky's hip, pensive. Then he slowly shakes his head and slides the manila envelope across the counter. "Your payment. Fifty-thousand dollars, as agreed."

Bucky nods and makes a show of counting the money. He doesn't really need it, but he has a feeling it's important to show White that he cares.

"I'll get started on this tomorrow," says Bucky, holding out his hand.

White's grip is surprisingly firm for a dying man. "Thank you."

Bucky gives him one last nod, then steps outside, closing the door behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

It takes a few weeks for Bucky to get everything set up. Most of his cash payment goes into the various bank accounts Bucky reclaimed from HYDRA for his own personal use. The rest of White's money safely gets funneled to trust funds and other accounts as Bucky planned. He even does some digging into White's wife's family—the Lamberts—and creates a long-lost will, providing a sum of money for White's wife and sister-in-law that not only pays off their debt to the U.S. government, but leaves plenty for them to use to start a new life.

Bucky saves the easiest task for last. The neo-Nazi compound is located in the middle of nowhere, New Mexico, and Bucky is grateful for White's coordinates. He parks his armored SUV some distance away and uses the scope of his rifle to observe the gang. There are seven of them, and the leader is easy to identify. Most are cruel, rough men who resemble Bucky's old handlers. One stocky blonde with a deceptively innocent face seems a little more reserved than the others. Watching him sends chills down Bucky's spine.

Bucky waits for the sky to darken, then pulls on his mask, scarf, gloves, and goggles. He hops the fence, disables the security cameras, and dispatches the entire group within fifteen minutes—all without revealing a single inch of his skin. It's perfect. 

He's trekking across the compound, silently congratulating himself on a job well done, when he hears a low groan. Bucky halts and takes in a long, silent breath, listening carefully as he looks around. The groan sounds again, more loudly this time, and Bucky follows it to a tarp that's been taped flat on the ground.

Bucky kneels next to the tarp and rips it off with his gloved metal hand, wrinkling his nose at the stench that wafts upward. Then his eyes catch on the padlock, the bars, and finally, the pit—where a bearded man with a scarred face is staring up at him in terror.

Bucky stares back for a moment, then rips the padlock off and unlatches the cage. There's a ladder attached to the underside of the top, and Bucky lets it down, wincing at the loud screeching of the metal. The man backs away, cowering like an abused dog. Bucky grimaces underneath his mask; he's sure he acted the same way with HYDRA several times.

"Come on," Bucky says to the man. "Can you climb up?"

The man nods warily, shuffling over to the base of the ladder. The chains on his wrists and ankles clink as he ascends. When he finally climbs out onto solid ground, he stands stock-still, silently darting glances at Bucky from underneath his unkempt hair. It's hard to tell how old he is in the dim light.

"What's your name?" Bucky asks.

The man's jaw works silently, and then he says, "Jesse," in a hoarse voice. Then: "What's yours?"

"It doesn't matter."

Jesse frowns hard, but he doesn't argue.

"The police will be here soon," says Bucky. He means it as a comfort, but the words have the opposite effect. Jesse flinches like he's been struck, stumbling a little in his bonds.

"Hold still," says Bucky, and he reaches out with his metal hand, snapping the chains on the cuffs that connect Jesse's wrists to each other and to the bar around his waist. Then, before Jesse can step back, he bends down and does the chain between his ankles.

Jesse gapes at him.

"Let's go," says Bucky, striding toward the gate. He makes it three feet before he realizes Jesse isn't following. "Come on. I'm guessing you don't want to stay here to meet the cops."

The words seem to jolt Jesse into action. He limps toward Bucky, panting heavily, and stays close behind him the rest of the way.

Bucky hustles Jesse into the passenger seat of his SUV and pulls onto the road, speeding down the long, empty stretch of highway. He pulls off his mask, goggles, and scarf and tosses them into the backseat, shaking his hair free and clearing his throat. "There's a little tool kit and some wet wipes in the console, protein bars and chewing gum in the glove box, and water bottles in the back seat pockets. You're welcome to any of them. Just—don't bother trying to hurt me or kill me. You won't like the results."

Jesse gives him a wide-eyed look, then slowly reaches for the glove box with shaking hands. Bucky keeps his eyes on the road but tracks Jesse's movements in his peripheral vision. Jesse eats a protein bar first, wincing at the loud crinkling of the wrapper, and then reaches around and pulls out a water bottle, downing half of it in one gulp. After that he sticks a piece of gum in his mouth and wipes his face and hands clean, then finally pulls out the tool kit. He is surprisingly adept at getting the cuffs off. He must have more experience than Bucky thought.

"Um," says Jesse, staring at the pile of metal and trash in his lap. "Thanks. What…should I do with this stuff?"

"There's a canvas bag underneath your seat. Put it in there and I'll dispose of it properly."

"Okay," says Jesse. The bag rustles as he complies.

A long silence stretches between them. Jesse shifts restlessly, unsuccessfully trying to hide his anxiety and fear. Bucky pretends not to notice for a while, but when he realizes Jesse isn't going to start talking on his own, he sighs and says, "Jesse. I know you have questions. Ask."

Jesse sucks in a breath, tensing. "I, um…"

"Just ask. You have a right to. I'd be confused as hell if our places were switched."

Jesse swallows loudly. "Are you…a cop? Like undercover or something?"

"No and no," Bucky answers.

Jesse looks stunned. "Then what the hell were you doing there?"

Bucky sighs. "A guy paid me to take care of the neo-Nazis, so I did."

"What guy?" Jesse's eyes are wide. "Wait, what do you mean, 'take care of'? Did you kill them?"

"I didn't kill them. I don't do that anymore."

Jesse makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat.

Bucky glances at him briefly, then sighs. "I tipped the police off about their location after letting slip that they murdered two DEA agents."

"Agent Schrader," Jesse whispers.

Bucky nods. "And his partner. You knew them?"

"Yeah." Jesse's voice is thick. "I knew them." He swipes hastily at his face, shuddering breaths wracking his thin frame. "Um. So you're not a cop, but you…" His voice trails off, and when he next speaks, his tone is disbelieving. "Was—was it Mr. White? Was that who sent you?"

Bucky says carefully, "The man who hired me had cancer. His dying wish was to make sure that his family received the money he felt he'd earned."

"Yeah, that's Mr. White," Jesse mutters.

Bucky shrugs.

"Did he—" Jesse's voice catches. "Did he mention me?"

"No," says Bucky, and at the hitch in Jesse's breathing, he adds, "I'm sorry."

Jesse slumps in his seat. "I—I guess I shouldn't have expected him to care. Not after he sold me out to the gang like that."

Bucky doesn't know how to respond to that. He's not good at giving comfort to himself, much less to other people. In fact, he's not really very good at emotions in general.

There's a reason he does most of his work behind the scenes these days.

Another heavy silence settles upon them. Bucky considers turning on the radio, but one look at Jesse's shadowed face stays his hand. The news stations might be reporting on the police raid of the compound right now, and he doesn't think Jesse needs the reminder.

After ten minutes, Jesse asks, "So. Uh. Where are we going?"

"A motel. We'll get cleaned up, sleep, eat, and make a plan—not necessarily in that order. I'm not going to drive you around forever, so you need to decide where you want to go and what you want to do, sooner rather than later."

"Okay," says Jesse, exhaling on a long, slow breath.

Jesse dozes quietly for the rest of the drive, occasionally jerking awake with startled gasps that set Bucky's hair on end. Bucky is mindful of his own reactions, keeping his own breath steady and his thoughts focused on the road ahead. He doesn't want to get triggered into thinking Jesse's a threat that needs to be eliminated. Jesse deserves better than that, especially after being locked up starving in a hidden underground cage. Bucky has a few guesses as to why Jesse was being kept like that, and none of them are good.

Bucky pulls to a stop in the dark motel parking lot and clears his throat. "Jesse, we're here."

Jesse jolts and looks around with a wild, frightened expression. "What the—" His eyes land on Bucky, and comprehension dawns. "Oh. Hey, did you know you're almost invisible in the dark?"

"That's the point," Bucky answers dryly, unbuckling his seatbelt. "Let's get inside."

Jesse hovers next to the door while Bucky gets a key to a single room with two beds. He briefly considers getting separate rooms, but his trust doesn't extend that far yet. Besides, he remembers his own recovery after his escape: countless nights of waking up alone on some dingy mattress or carpet, frozen with fear as he tried to figure out what was real and what wasn't. Things might go better for Jesse if he's not alone.

Bucky gathers his goggles, mask, and scarf from the backseat and shoves them into the trunk. He keeps his gloves on as he grabs his duffel bag, making sure the car is locked before leading Jesse up the stairs to their assigned room. The room is sparse and utilitarian, but it has a functioning shower and sink with clean water, two queen-size double beds, and a notable absence of insects or scents.

Bucky sweeps the room for wires—there are none—and then claims the bed closest to the door. He unzips his duffel and pulls out full set of clean clothes, including socks and underwear. "Here," he says, holding it out to Jesse. "Go shower first. Take as much hot water as you want."

Jesse cradles the clothes to his chest, giving Bucky a wary look. "Why, um. Why are you helping me? Do you want something?"

Bucky takes a moment to choose his words. "I've—been where you are. It wasn't the same group of people, but—the circumstances were similar. I got myself out, and I…got better. But I had to do it on my own. It wasn't easy. I'm not—I don't want to be your caretaker, your nurse. But I just thought—I could help."

"You," Jesse begins, and his gaze drops to the floor. He scuffles his worn, filthy sneakers on the carpet. "I mean. I just—I'm not a good person."

"I never said I was, either," says Bucky, thinking of the Winter Soldier's thick dossier, the screams and sobs that haunt him almost every night. "But I'm trying to learn how to be."

Jesse looks up, his expression haunted. "Okay," he says quietly, and he backs toward the door of the bathroom, keeping Bucky in his line of sight until he can shut the bathroom door.

Bucky sighs and sinks onto the bed, listening to the sound of running water, then turns the TV on, only to find Jesse staring out at him from the screen. He hastily hits "mute," tracking the spotty black-and-white captions at the bottom of the screen. They indicate that Jesse Pinkman is the former partner of notorious meth manufacturer Heisenberg, aka Walter White. He's a "person of interest" in the investigation of Schrader and Gomez's murder. The police hope he'll come forward to assist with the hunt for White. An upcoming segment will feature an interview with Jesse's tearful parents.

Bucky turns the TV off as soon as the water stops running, rubbing his forehead.

"Hey, so," says Jesse awkwardly when he steps out of the bathroom. He looks much cleaner than before, and there's a new clarity in his eyes. He runs a hand through the wet hair plastered to his head. "D'you have some scissors? Uh. Maybe a razor?"

"Maybe," says Bucky. "Why?"

Jesse makes a face. "The hair, dude. I washed it, but it's itchy and—anyway, I want to get it off."

Bucky nods in understanding. He takes out his razor and installs a new blade, then passes it to Jesse along with a can of shaving cream and a small pair of scissors he uses to trim his own hair. "Leave the door open," he says.

Jesse looks disgruntled, but he complies with the request. Bucky listens to his grunts and mutters with half an ear, using the time to eat a protein bar, rehydrate, and plan an excursion to the twenty-four-hour McDonald's he noticed on the way to the motel.

"You like McDonald's?" Bucky asks when Jesse finally emerges from the bathroom, clean-shaven and looking an entire decade younger.

Jesse moans softly, handing back the razor, shaving cream, and scissors and sprawling out on the other bed. "I could eat anything right now."

"Okay. I'll make a food run. Burgers, fries, some salads, drinks. You want dessert? Maybe some ice cream?"

"No," says Jesse, sitting up abruptly. The color drains from his face. "No ice cream."

"No ice cream," Bucky agrees. "The apple pies are better anyway." He stands up and pats his pockets down, making sure he has his knife, his gun, his car keys, and his cash, and then he pulls his hair up into a ponytail and sticks a baseball cap on top of his head. "You should stay here, keep the blinds drawn. Don't talk to anyone, make any calls, or answer any knocks. I've got a key, and I'll knock before I come in, in this pattern." He does a quick series of short and long knocks, a modified version of "107" in Morse code. "I'll be back in twenty minutes. Understand?"

Jesse nods. "Can I, um. Can I watch TV?"

Bucky takes a deep breath, in and out. "Sure. But you should know—you're a fugitive. And—your parents talked to some reporters. You might, um, see them in the news. Maybe—try to watch a movie or something."

Jesse shrinks in on himself, eyes shuttering. "Oh. Okay. Thanks."

Bucky casts him a long look, then walks out the door, making sure it shuts behind him.

Bucky half-expected Jesse to steal the duffle and run off, so when he returns, he's mildly surprised to find Jesse still on the other bed, knees curled up to his chest as he watches some animated movie about a boy trying to ride a dragon. "Hey," Jesse greets, taking his portion of the food with a grateful smile. "Thanks."

"You're welcome." Bucky lays out his own food on the edge of the bed, then kicks off his boots and settles in. "What are you watching?"

"_How to Train Your Dragon,"_ Jesse answers. "It's pretty good. Didn't think I'd ever get a chance to see it." Red floods his cheeks, and he hunches his shoulders and shoves some fries into his mouth.

Bucky doesn't ask him to elaborate, focusing on his own meal instead.

"Shit, it's been so long since I ate something green," says Jesse when the credits roll forty-five minutes later. He crunches on his side salad with more enthusiasm than Bucky ever anticipated. "Me and Mr. White used to go to this buffet with just these piles of fruit and veggies. Dude, I'm telling you, that was the best pineapple in the _country._ Damn, I could go for some of that right now." He glances up at Bucky, his cheeks flushing.

"I like plums," Bucky offers.

"That's what I'm talking about," Jesse says, brightening. "Get the good shit. Can't really find plums in Albuquerque, they don't grow too well in the soil or some shit. You gotta go to a special farmer's market to get 'em."

"You know a lot about plants?" asks Bucky, after casting about too long for an appropriate response.

"Not really," says Jesse, running his hands through his newly trimmed hair. "Don't really know a lot about anything except cooking meth. But I don't ever want to do that again. It ruined my fucking life." His voice cracks, and he looks away, scrubbing roughly at his face. "Shit."

Bucky makes a show of cleaning up, giving Jesse time to collect himself. He gathers the stained, greasy food containers, and then he ducks into the bathroom to wash his hands. While he's at it, he flosses and brushes his teeth, then ties off the trash bag containing Jesse's old, dirty clothes and shorn hair. When he gets the chance, he'll dispose of it along with the cuffs at some distant location.

When he comes out, the TV is off, and Jesse's face is splotchy but dry.

Bucky hands him an apple pie. The container is still hot.

"You ever think about what you would do if you were given a second chance?" Bucky asks.

Jesse's swallows a mouthful of pie, wincing. His laugh is bitter. "Yeah." He washes down the food with a sip of water. "Alaska. I'd, um, move to Alaska."

Bucky nods. "What would you do for work?"

Jesse inhales and exhales, staring at his hands. "I…" He shakes his head. "It's stupid."

Bucky raises an eyebrow.

Jesse shifts and says, very quietly, "You know, me and Mr. White had this exact same conversation. He told me I should go into business. Marketing and sales." Jesse huffs a laugh and shakes his head, picking at the remnants of his pie crust. "Back then I—I thought he was right. And I mean—he _was_. I was good at marketing crystal—that's why our business was so successful." His face twists with guilt, and he darts a glance at Bucky before looking back down at his hands. "Now, I…I think I'd like to be a woodworker. I took shop in school and…and it was the one thing that came easy to me. Motivated me. And I…I don't think I would be too good around people, anyway. Not anymore."

Bucky says, his voice equally quiet, "That sounds like a good plan. Woodworking in Alaska."

"Yeah," says Jesse. "Thanks."

"If you want, I could help you set that up," says Bucky, thinking of the Disappearer. "I know a guy."

Jesse looks up, startled. "You do? I, um, I sort of know a guy too."

Bucky raises his eyebrows. "Might be the same guy."

"I hope not," says Jesse, blowing out a breath. "I fucked up my appointment the first time. Even if he gave me a second chance, I can't afford to pay him."

"How much was the fee?"

"One hundred and twenty-five thousand in cash. And if I try to go to him now, who knows how much interest he'll charge me. _If_ he even accepts." Jesse shrugs, shoulders falling in defeat.

Bucky hums. "I could pay for you."

Jesse's mouth parts. "What?" He makes an aborted gesture with his hand, then shakes his head. "Why?"

Bucky shrugs. "I've got more money than I know what to do with. And I got a second chance. Why shouldn't you?"

Jesse opens and closes his mouth a few times, the look of disbelief on his face almost comical. Finally, he blows out a long breath and says, "All right. Um. Thank you. Seriously."

"We can head there tomorrow."

Jesse frowns. "What?"

"The guy I know—who may or may not be the same guy you know—is located in Albuqerque."

"But—we're miles away from Albuquerque. Bitch, we're not even in the state of New Mexico." He hunches his shoulders at Bucky's frown, his cheeks red. "Um. I read the hotel information binder while you were gone."

"Good thinking," says Bucky. "I'd want to know where I was too."

Jesse chews his lip. "Aren't you worried?"

"About what?"

"About getting caught with me."

Bucky almost laughs. "No, I'm not. I know how to get around undetected."

"You're not…going to make me ride in the trunk, right? Or like. In the seat well?"

"No," says Bucky firmly, suppressing a shiver. He'd been forced to do that—sedated—as the Soldier several times, and it had always left him sore and nauseated. He would never inflict it on anyone else.

Jesse sighs in relief. "Thanks."

"You're welcome."

Jesse clears his throat, tossing his apple pie container into the trash. "Think I'm gonna sleep. Is that okay?"

"Sure. I'll keep watch."

Jesse staggers to the bathroom to brush his teeth, then flops on top of the covers and passes out.

Bucky turns off the overhead light and flicks on the lamp near his bed, pulling out the latest sci-fi novel he's acquired. He listens to Jesse's even breaths as he reads, dozing off on his own a few hours later.

* * *

The nightmares come, as they always do.

Steve stands over him, shivering, blue eyes like flint. "Bucky," he says as his body contorts grotesquely from large to small to large, over and over again. "Bucky, _why?_"

"Steve," Bucky whispers, reaching out—and Steve doubles over, crimson spreading against his milk-white skin, betrayal in his eyes. "No," Bucky whispers, _"No"_—he scrambles to reach for Steve, only to find his own metal hand covered in blood. Bucky stares at it in horror and screams—

"Hey! Hey, man, wake up! Wake up—"

Bucky jolts upright, his chest heaving, a thin, high-pitched wail dying on his tongue.

"Fuckin_' shit_, dude. Are you—are you okay?"

Bucky squeezes his eyes shut and then opens them wide, trying to focus on his surroundings as sweat trickles down his spine. On the other bed there's a man about his age with a choppy haircut and wide, scared eyes, hands held out in a universal attempt to placate—

Oh, right. Jesse. Jesse Pinkman. The guy he rescued from a hole in the ground.

Bucky clears his throat. "What time is it?"

Jesse warily lowers his hands. "Um, like—" Jesse squints at the motel alarm clock. "3:02 AM."

Bucky grunts. "Sorry if I woke you."

Jesse shrugs. "It's—it's chill. I was kinda—having nightmares of my own. So it's good you woke me up."

Bucky scrubs at his face, tiny tremors running through his body. "Sorry," he mutters again.

"Hey, um," says Jesse, shoulders hunching, "You can—talk about it? If you want?"

Bucky blows out a breath and shakes his head. "I'd rather not."

"Okay. Sure. Whatever." Jesse curls onto his side, facing the wall with his back to Bucky, obviously feigning sleep.

Bucky sighs and lies down on his own mattress, staring at the ceiling.

Two minutes later, Jesse flails suddenly, falling off the bed with a yelp.

Bucky slowly lifts himself up onto his elbows. "Jesse?"

Jesse groans, his head in his hands. "Fuck," he breathes shakily.

Bucky flicks on his lamp. "Sorry," he mutters at Jesse's minute flinch.

Jesse climbs back onto the bed, drawing his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. Tears are pooling in the corners of his eyes.

"You, uh. You want to talk about it?" Bucky ventures.

"I just, um…" He swallows loudly. "I just keep seeing them when I close my eyes."

"Who?"

Jesse's breath hitches on a sob, and he buries his face in his knees. "Just. People I killed or—or who got killed. Because of me. Innocent people who…who got too close to me."

Bucky takes a deep breath, in and out, and says quietly, "I can understand that."

"Yeah?" asks Jesse.

"Yeah," says Bucky.

"Does it ever—" Jesse clears his throat roughly. "Does it ever go away?"

"No," says Bucky.

Jesse wilts.

Bucky's heart twinges with guilt. He adds, "It doesn't go away, but—it gets…better. You get…used to it, I guess. And you just—try to do what you can to make up for it."

"Is that what you're doing?" asks Jesse, raising his head and peering at Bucky.

"I don't know if I'm succeeding, but I'm trying," says Bucky. "It's all I can do."

"Yeah," says Jesse. "Okay. Yeah."

Bucky picks up the TV remote. "Want to watch some shitty informercials to take your mind off things?" he asks wryly. "They tend to calm me down when my brain's all wired up."

"Um—sure," says Jesse with a shrug.

Bucky shrugs back and turns on the TV, flipping quickly through channels before stopping on HGTV. Both of them stare blindly as the low drone of the salesperson's voice fills the empty corners of the room, a meager balm to the guilt sitting heavy on their hearts.

When dawn peeks in through the dusty window blinds, Bucky rises and stretches, and Jesse follows suit. They don sunglasses, baseball caps, and hooded sweatshirts—simple but effective disguises—and within a few minutes, they're on the road, driving toward Albuquerque in silence.


	3. Chapter 3

It turns out that the guy Jesse knows is, indeed, the Disappearer.

And the Disappearer isn't at all pleased to see him—or Bucky.

"I wasn't supposed to see either of you ever again," says the Disappearer, flipping the sign on the door of the vacuum shop from Open to Closed. "Come on, let's get downstairs."

Bucky and Jesse follow the Disappearer down to the makeshift photo studio in the basement. Blue projection screens hang down from the ceiling, obscuring their peripheral vision.

"Sit," the Disappearer mutters, directing them to the only empty table in the room.

Bucky lowers himself down onto a rickety stool, and Jesse, after a moment of hesitation, does the same.

The Disappearer sits down across from them, heaving a sigh. "What do you want?"

"A new identity," says Jesse. "Please."

The Disappearer pins him with a disappointed glare. "I thought I made my policy clear the first time. You only get one chance."

Jesse's face crumples like he's about to cry. "I—I know. But—I, I've been through hell since then and every fuckin' day I'm sorry I didn't show up. Please. These guys, they kept me in a cage—"

"If you think some sob story is going to inspire me, try again," says the Disappearer, crossing his arms over his chest.

Bucky isn't sure what motivates him to jump in, but he asks, "How much money would it take?"

"Two-hundred and fifty-thousand dollars, and from you—another favor," the Disappearer responds without looking away from Jesse.

Jesse's jaw drops in outrage. "But last time it cost—"

"_Last time_, you stood me up. So this time, I'm collecting double. You're as high a risk as your old partner, maybe even more so."

Jesse's jaw sets in a way that's eerily reminiscent of Steve Rogers. "Fine."

"You'll get your money tomorrow," says Bucky, holding out his gloved flesh hand. "And your favor, whenever you call for it."

The Disappearer finally turns his gaze to Bucky. "It's a deal," he says, shaking Bucky's hand firmly. He hands Bucky a burner phone. "Keep that charged. I'll be calling you."

Bucky slips the phone into his pocket and nods.

"Now get out," says the Disappearer.

Bucky looks at Jesse and jerks his head toward the stairs. They walk out through the front door in a tense silence.

"I know a place," says Jesse, as soon as he's slammed the car door shut. "The cash—I know where to get it."

"I told you I'd pay," says Bucky, starting the engine and carefully backing out of the parking lot.

"Yeah, but—" Jesse looks frustrated. "I—I feel like I should, like, contribute."

Bucky inhales sharply, struck by a sudden memory of Steve Rogers saying the exact same thing. "You don't owe me anything."

"But—"

"I _said_, you don't owe me anything," says Bucky, his hands tightening on the steering wheel.

Jesse subsides. "Okay," he mutters sullenly.

Bucky drives them to the very edges of town, where a defunct HYDRA safehouse is hidden beneath the veneer of an abandoned flophouse. Like the other safehouses Bucky commandeered after his escape, it contains a large stash of cash—about five hundred thousand dollars, give or take, most of which Bucky didn't even have to acquire himself. At its peak, HYDRA had billions of dollars flowing into its coffers from both underground and official sources. It's all Bucky's now. He considers it backpay—or, more precisely, reparations for the hell they put him through.

"We'll stay here for the night," says Bucky, jimmying the lock with his metal hand. He pushes open the door to reveal a dank room with a single stained mattress, a rickety chair, and torn curtains that do little to hide the blazing New Mexico sunset.

"Here?" says Jesse, looking around warily.

"Shut the door. You'll see."

Jesse complies, obviously reluctant.

Bucky sets his duffel down and kneels on the floor, swiping his fingers through the dust on the cracked floorboards. It takes him a moment to find what he's looking for—the slightest indentation made by two metal fingertips. He pries up the loose floorboard and its neighbors, then reaches down and pulls open the metal trapdoor that covers the hatch leading to the lower level. Bucky unfolds the ladder, waiting until he hears the base of the ladder hit the bottom, and then he drops his duffel bag down. It echoes loudly as it hits the concrete floor below.

"You ready to climb down?" he asks Jesse, who's staring down at the hatch and its ladder with utter dread.

"Do—" Jesse squeezes his eyes shut. "Do I have to?"

Bucky grimaces as he notes the similarity between the hatch and Jesse's cage at the neo-Nazi compound. "Sorry. But yes."

Jesse takes a shuddering breath. "Okay," he whispers. His fists clench and unclench at his sides as he braces himself. "I can do this. Yeah."

"It's only for tonight," Bucky adds. It's a measly comfort, but he's unable to offer more.

Jesse nods. His hands shake as he grips the top rung of the ladder and slowly positions his feet. Then, with one last glance at the windows, he begins to descend.

Bucky waits a solid two minutes before starting his own climb down, pulling the hatch cover closed above his head. His eyes adjust easily to the darkness, but he hears a startled cry from Jesse, and he feels a twinge of guilt. "Sorry," he calls down.

Jesse says hoarsely, "I just reached the, uh, bottom."

"Wait there," Bucky orders, and he hastily scrambles down, nearly colliding with Jesse who's standing stock-still at the base of the ladder.

Bucky swings his bag over his shoulder and feels along the wall panels until he finds the seam of the hidden door. He gently pushes in with his metal fingers until he finds the latch, and then he pulls. The door swings open, a loud creak covering his relieved sigh as overhead lights flicker on automatically.

The room appears exactly as Bucky left it two years ago. Two cots, neatly made with one blanket and one pillow, sit in each corner of the far wall. The bathroom is between them. Its door is slightly ajar, showing the edges of a toilet, a shower stall, a sink, and a mirror doubling as a cabinet, which Bucky knows contains soap, toothpaste, and toothbrushes.

Mounted on the wall closest to the door is a monitor displaying a surveillance feed, rotating images showing all the activity within a fifty-mile radius of the house. Bucky can see his parked SUV sitting innocuously at the front door. Metal shelves stacked with MREs, bottled water, blankets, tactical gear, and camo clothing stand next to the monitor. A fan hums from the ceiling, keeping the air circulating and preventing suffocation.

Jesse seems to relax as he glances around, slowly unwrapping his arms around himself and edging toward one of the cots. "So is this your, uh, base or something?"

Bucky shrugs one shoulder, letting the door slowly swing shut behind him. "Something like that."

"Okay," says Jesse. "It's—nice."

"Sure," says Bucky, huffing a laugh. "It's nice."

"Better than a cage in the ground," Jesse mumbles.

"Yeah," says Bucky softly. "Better than that." His eyes drift toward the space under Jesse's cot, where a dog cage used to sit, complete with a collar and a padlock. Some of the Soldier's crueler handlers liked to keep him there as entertainment. Bucky had destroyed it—and the cages in the other safehouses—as soon as he could.

"Hey," says Jesse, "You—uh—you okay?"

Bucky blinks and shakes off the memories, clearing his throat and grabbing some MREs off the shelf. He tosses one to Jesse. "Let's eat."

Jesse frowns, squinting at the instructions on the pouch. "I've never eaten one of these before."

"They're convenient," says Bucky, ripping open his pouch. "Can't say much for the taste, but they're good for the calories."

"Spaghetti and meatballs," Jesse reads, making a face. "Okay. Sure. I've had worse."

Jesse catches on quickly after watching Bucky heat up his MRE. "Shit, I didn't realize how hungry I was," he says, shoveling the now steaming food into his mouth. "I guess we haven't really eaten anything all day. I wasn't even thinking about it." He pauses and looks up, eyes wide in surprise. "Did you—did you just eat three of those in one go?"

Bucky shoves the remnants of his meal deeper into the small garbage can at the end of his cot. "No?"

Jesse snorts. "Whatever you say, man. I'm not judging." He takes a swig of his water bottle, sprawling out onto his cot with a groan. "Ugh. I think that was too much too fast."

"If you need to vomit, do it in the toilet."

"What—" Jesse cranes his head, giving him a disgusted look. "Yo, I'm not going to _throw up_. Just need some time to digest."

Bucky shrugs and pulls out his sci-fi novel, flipping to the most recent page. Five minutes pass in a comfortable silence, and then Jesse pops his head up again, looking at Bucky incredulously. "Are you _reading_?"

Bucky raises his eyebrows. "What does it look like?"

"What is that?" Jesse peers at the cover, half-covered by Bucky's gloved metal hand. "_Journey to the…Center of…the Earth._ Hey, Badger loved that movie, wouldn't shut up about it for weeks. Did you see it?"

"No," Bucky mutters. "Wasn't aware there was one. Who the hell is Badger?"

"Oh, uh," says Jesse, cheeks flushing. "Just—a friend I used to have. Big sci-fi fan." He clears his throat. "Sorry. I'll shut up now."

Bucky reads a few more sentences, but he can't focus, hyperaware of Jesse fidgeting a few feet away. He sets the book down with a sigh. "Jesse."

Jesse flinches like he's been slapped. "Sorry."

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing," Jesse mumbles.

Bucky raises his eyebrows and waits.

Jesse's cheeks redden even more. "I just—" He shakes his head. "It wasn't so bad when we were on the road, but I feel—like, like my emotions are rising to the surface or some shit, I don't know. Like—like the Wizard of Oz or something, like—everything was in black and white, all my memories, but now they're in full color and I—I can't—" His voice breaks, and he buries his face in his palms, his breath coming short and fast.

"Jesse," says Bucky helplessly. "You—you need to breathe."

"I can't—" Jesse gasps like he can't get enough air, and the sound rings like a gong in Bucky's ears.

The words tumble out of Bucky's mouth, colored by an accent he thought he'd lost long ago. "You can do it, just breathe, like I'm doing, nice and slow. I'll do a count, and you'll follow it. One, two, three, four—good, another breath, deeper this time—one, two, three, four, five—" Bucky sucks in his own deep breath of recycled air, then lets it out, encouraged as Jesse continues to mirror him. "Yeah, that's good, that's swell, Steve."

Jesse shudders as he exhales, swiping away the tears tracking down his face as his breathing returns to normal. "Thanks," he says, scratching the back of his neck. "That was—that helped."

"Good," says Bucky, relieved.

A beat passes, and Bucky thinks that's the end of it. Then Jesse clears his throat and says, nervously, "Uh, hey, you know your—your voice kinda changed. Like—like some actor from an old movie or something."

Bucky grunts. "Yeah."

Jesse looks at him, his brow furrowed. "You called me Steve."

"Yeah, I—sorry."

Jesse takes a deep breath, in and out, then braces himself and asks, "Who's Steve?"

Bucky blows out a breath. "Steve was—" Bucky's flesh hand shakes as he runs it through his hair. "Steve was—a friend. He—" The words gum up on Bucky's tongue, and his chest gets tight. He swallows past the hard lump in his throat. "He was—my best friend." He was more than that—but Bucky will never admit it.

"You said 'was,'" says Jesse after a long silence.

Bucky nods, his heart aching. "He died. And I wasn't there to—to stop it."

Jesse lets out a long exhale. "Shit, dude, I…I'm sorry."

Bucky clenches his hands into fists and presses his nails against his palm, trying to ground himself. "It was—a long time ago. But every day I still—I still regret not being at his side."

"I'm sorry," says Jesse, He sounds like he means it—and looks it, too.

"Thanks," Bucky says quietly. "And I'm sorry too—for what happened to you."

"Thanks."

A heavy, awkward silence fills the air. Bucky eventually returns to reading his novel, while Jesse stares at the flickering surveillance videos, his body occasionally wracked with a sudden shiver. When Bucky finally manages to finish his chapter, the world outside has gone completely dark, and Jesse has dozed off on his cot, slumped against the wall, his body halfway to lying down. Bucky considers waking him up to brush his teeth or adjust his position, but then he decides against it. Jesse needs take whatever rest he can get.

When Bucky is sure that Jesse is sound asleep, he grabs the duffel and goes into the bathroom, quietly pushing the door shut. He steps into the shower stall and works his metal fingers into the space behind the soap dish built into the wall, jimmying it until he's able to remove it from the wall. Noiselessly, he funnels the stack of bills hidden behind it into his duffel, leaving a quarter behind as a backup. The total amounts to three hundred and seventy thousand dollars. After Bucky pays the Disappearer his fee, Jesse will have over one hundred grand to lean on as he establishes his new life.

Bucky pushes the duffel bag up against the door in lieu of a lock and turns on the shower, watching steam cloud the mirror. He grabs soap and shampoo from the mirrored cabinet, then strips and steps into the water, sighing as he washes away two days' worth of grime and stress. He dries his hair and skin thoroughly, brushes his teeth, and then changes into a dark, long-sleeved T-shirt and loose black pants. With reluctance, he pulls on his gloves to cover up the metal prosthetic, then grabs his gun, knife, and duffel, placing them at strategic locations around his cot before drifting off into a restless sleep.

* * *

Bucky and Jesse reach the Disappearer around noon the following day, strategically entering the shop when no one else is around. The Disappearer decides to take a "lunch break" and flips his sign to "Closed," and after that, things move very quickly: Bucky pays the Disappearer the doubled fee, promises to come when called for a favor, hands the rest of the cash to Jesse, and then turns and makes his way toward the door.

"Wait," Jesse calls, running after Bucky awkwardly while trying to stuff stacks of bills in his pockets.

Bucky halts and turns, one eyebrow raised.

"Wait, man. I—I just wanted to say thank you. You didn't know me, and you didn't have to do all this, and I—I don't even know your name. And just—I really appreciate it."

Bucky attempts a small, awkward smile that he's sure looks more like a pained grimace. "You're welcome. Take care of yourself."

"You too," says Jesse, and he makes an aborted movement with his hands before shoving them deep into his hoodie pockets. "Um—bye, then."

"Goodbye, Jesse."

Jesse's stare lingers on Bucky's back as Bucky exits the store. He can still feel it when he gets into the SUV and drives away.


	4. Chapter 4

_October 2011 (One Year Later)_

The call comes—conveniently—while Bucky's driving out of Arizona, having just finished visiting the Grand Canyon during its off season. He had done that on purpose; fewer crowds meant that he was less likely to be thrown into a state of hypervigilance.

"I need a favor," says the Disappearer.

"What is it?" asks Bucky, pulling over to the side of the road as he turns up the volume of the burner phone.

"Got a guy here who's looking to disappear. He's…kind of famous. And several alphabet agencies are on his tail."

Bucky frowns. "What'd he do?"

"Nothing bad."

Bucky sighs. "What do you need me to do?"

"Well," says the Disappearer, "I need you to help him disappear."

"What?"

"A whole bunch of government goons are about to storm my shop in ten minutes. There's no doubt they tracked him here. Now, I got him down in the basement hiding, and I can make him new documentation and all that, but I'm going to need you to transport him out—discreetly. They're not going to care about you, but they will be following me. Can you meet me at the shop at midnight?"

Bucky mentally calculates the distance. It's one o'clock, which leaves him plenty of time to drive to Albuquerque and stop for food. "I'll see you then."

The drive is long and quiet. Bucky spends most of it reminiscing about Steve. It always hurts to think of him, but sometimes it also feels good. Before the war, the two of them had dreamed about going to the Grand Canyon and seeing the stars without the glare of lights from the city. Bucky's done that now. He hopes it counts for both of them.

Bucky's thoughts drift to Jesse as he gets closer to town. He hopes that Jesse's fresh start was a good one, that he found a job as a woodworker just like he'd dreamed. The hundred grand Bucky left Jesse with should have been enough to let him take some classes and stock up on tools, maybe even set up his own workspace and establish his own business. Jesse had said he was good at marketing, after all.

Bucky pulls into Albuquerque around dinnertime, stopping at a buffet to fill his stomach. A TV mounted in the corner shows the latest breaking news: some high-speed car chase through New York City, Apple's release of a voice-activated AI called Siri, the continuing withdrawal of troops from Iraq. Bucky absorbs it all as he tiredly picks at his roast chicken.

At midnight Bucky parks in the back lot of the Disappearer's vacuum shop. With a sigh, he dons his goggles, mask, and scarf, then slings his duffel bag over his shoulder with his gloved hands.

The Disappearer emerges from the shadows a minute later. "Come on," he mutters, unlocking the back door.

Bucky follows the Disappearer into the dark store and down the stairs, noting with faint surprise that the arrangement of projection screens has changed. The Disappearer leads him around a cluster of desks littered with office supplies, then bends down with a groan underneath a wide table and opens a trapdoor hidden under a rug.

"I need you to take it from here," says the Disappearer, pressing a pair of car keys into Bucky's hand. "These will unlock a truck located at the depot ten miles east. You can leave your car there; I'll pick it up for you. The truck has a trailer attached to it with a hidden sleeper compartment—that's where this guy will need to stay while you're on the road. Truck's already fully stocked with food, clothes, and cash, enough for both of you. I've already told this guy his cover story, so you don't need to worry about that. He should be able to help with navigation too."

The Disappearer rattles off the license plate of the truck, the street address of the truck depot, and the coordinates of their destination. It's in Alaska. "I've gotta leave before the suits put two and two together. Door of the shop will lock automatically behind you. Good luck. "

Bucky gives the Disappearer his car keys, glad that he thought to fetch his duffel bag from the trunk. He waits until the Disappearer has left, then climbs through the trapdoor and down the small ladder.

"Hi," says a familiar voice. "Are you the guy?"

Bucky wheels around slowly, his ears ringing.

Steve Rogers is standing inside the hiding place, chin lifted and jaw set. He's wearing a dirt-stained white T shirt and black pants, and he looks haggard and pale. His eyes—wide and blue and shadowed—belie his anxiety.

Bucky's heart jumps to his throat, and his vision whites out for a moment. _Steve? _he whispers, but the name doesn't make it out of his mouth. A guttural gasp comes out instead.

Steve frowns at him, a little line appearing in his brow as he looks Bucky over from head to toe. "Excuse me for being rude, but—would you mind showing me your face? You look like you're from outer space with that getup, and it's distracting."

Bucky squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep breath. Before he can think about whether it's a good idea, he reaches up and removes his goggles, mask, and scarf, letting them hang on his neck as he lifts his head to meet Steve's gaze.

Steve staggers backward, his face going white. _"Bucky?"_

"Hey, Steve," Bucky croaks, his heart pounding against his chest.

"I—I don't—" Steve's jaw works soundlessly. "I don't understand. How are you here?"

"I should ask you the same thing." Bucky says, taking a shaky breath. "I thought you were dead."

"I thought—" Steve's eyes glimmer, and his voice falters. "I saw you fall. Thousands of feet, and I couldn't catch you. I'm so sorry, Buck—"

Bucky shakes his head sharply. "It wasn't your fault, Steve." Steve's expression crumples, and Bucky says, panicked, "But I forgive you anyway. Even though there's nothing to forgive."

Steve's hands twitch at his sides. "Buck," he whispers like a prayer as he takes a hesitant step forward. "Can I—"

Bucky nods. "Go ahead."

Steve doesn't hesitate. He throws himself at Bucky, trembling from head to toe as he wraps his arms around Bucky's waist and settles his chin on Bucky's shoulder.

Bucky stands stock-still for a moment, letting his body adjust to the sensation. No one's hugged him for a long, long time. He instinctively runs one hand down Steve's spine, and Steve sighs and relaxes, melting into the embrace. "I missed you," Steve mumbles, his tears dampening the seams of Bucky's shirt.

"I missed you too, Steve," says Bucky, his vision blurring with hot tears. He blinks them back quickly before they can fall.

Steve's grip tightens in protest when Bucky tries to pull back. "Steve, listen to me," says Bucky, curling his hands around Steve's and gently maneuvering him so that they're looking at each other. "We need to get out of here. I heard you want to go to Alaska?"

"Yeah," Steve breathes, swiping his hand across his eyes.

"I—I know a guy there," says Bucky. "I don't know if I'll be able to find him, but—it might be nice to have a friend."

Steve sucks in a breath and gives Bucky a hopeful look. "Are you coming with me?"

Bucky nods. "I'll be with you the whole way there."

"And after—will you stay?"

"As long as you want me to," says Bucky, a sense of peace settling deep into his heart. He's always belonged at Steve's side; he just didn't think he'd ever get a chance to do that again.

"What if—" Steve inhales sharply, straightening his shoulders. "What if I asked you to stay permanently?"

"Then I'll stay permanently," says Bucky. He grasps Steve's shoulder. "I'm with you to the end of the line, remember?"

Steve's answering smile is like sunlight, breaking through the cold, dark haze of Bucky's existence for the past ten years. "I remember. Thank you, Buck."

"Come on," says Bucky, gesturing to the trapdoor. "Let's get out of here."

The night is pitch-black as they walk out of the shop side-by-side, ready to start their new lives together.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Avenged Sevenfold's song ["Coming Home"](https://youtu.be/ktbihFCfnzQ).
> 
> Comments, kudos, and transformative works are always appreciated. I would love to hear your thoughts!
> 
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